trigger warnings: incest, mental health mentions, violence, homophobic slurs, general homophobia, abuse (verbal and physical)

rating: T+

content preview: mlm relationship(s), incest, abusive father, etc.

"Dada, look! I'm a ghost!"

Dean turned around to look at what the four year old menace had done, and was met with the sight of his sandy blonde-haired child under a bedsheet making cartoon ghost noises. He chuckled to himself and decided to play along, taking one of the blankets from the sofa and putting it over his head, concealing his bow legged frame. The little boy screeched and ran away, his dad trailing after him up the stairs.

At the top, he became winded and fell over onto his rear end, only to have his dad scoop him up and kiss his cheek.

"A ghost, huh?" He panted slightly. "How 'bout we go scare Daddy, yeah?"

Jack's brown eyes widened as he nodded ferociously, a mischievous grin forming between his prominent dimples. Dean smirked, put him down, and began adjusting the sheet over his tiny body.

He knelt down to meet Jack's "eyes" (they were there under the sheet, he assumed), and nodded. "Okay, we're gonna scare Daddy, and we ain't stoppin' at nothin'. Gimme your best ghost noise."

Jack made a throaty "ooo" sound, and Dean smiled. "Good. Let's do this, dude."

They approached the closed bathroom door and, as their footsteps on the creaking wood were concealed by the hairdryer, stood to the side unnoticed. Dean put his hand on the door knob and counted down to one from three in a whisper. Then, they busted in and began making noises somewhere between ooo's and screams.

Dean swore he had never seen that look on Sam's face before, as he dropped that hairdryer in fright, looked into the doorway with wide eyes, and bolted into the closet. Jack doubled over in laughter while Dean snickered as he walked toward the closet door, taking his sheet off as he went. When he reached it, he smirked.

"Jesus, Sammy, you're rusty!" He chuckled. "What if your baby son and I had been banshees or kitsunes? You'd be d-e-a-d (he spelled that last bit for emphasis)."

Sam opened the door and huffed, a smile on his face. "Oh, screw you, Dean."

"Pretty please," Dean donned a smirk and puppy dog eyes, only to earn a laugh from the younger man.

"Maybe later," Sam kissed his nose, then his cheek, then his lips, which caused Jack to groan and cover his eyes.

"Ew! Daddy, Dada! Gross!" He shrieked.

Sam laughed. "Excuse me, Mr. I-drool-on-Daddy-while-he-sleeps?"

Jack laughed as Sam picked him up and tickled him, only leading to Dean joining in. They only stopped when Jack was out of breath and flushed red, but still hysterical. Sam shrugged his arm around his husband's shoulders and sighed contentedly.

"I've got a PTA thing for Cassie in an hour," he muttered, leaning his head on Dean's.

The older man exhaled in mock annoyance and peered up at him. "I thought we were watching The Bachelor tonight!"

Sam laughed. "She wants to watch it too, and she'll murder you if you watch it without her."

Unexpectedly, Dean gently shoved Sam onto their bed and jumped onto the mattress, turning on his side to face his brother's famous resting bitch face. "I am quite scared of that girl. Where the—"

Sam nodded at Jack, who had weaselled his way under his arm to snuggle, and cleared his throat as a warning. He all but said, "Don't you say that word."

"—fudge is she anyway?" Dean finished, sticking his tongue out at the moose.

"Tutor," he replied nonchalantly. "She wants to go into algebra two next year, remember?"

"Jesus, Sammy, she reminds me of you. All brainy and overachieving." He flopped onto his back. "We don't gotta worry 'bout her.

"I know. It's this little guy we have to worry about," Sam tousled Jack's hair and he grinned maniacally.

Jack piped up. "I wanna be an army man!"

Dean chuckled. "As long as it's not the h-word, we've got a deal, dude."

Sam and Dean gave up hunting years ago. They still have the guns and other miscellaneous weapons, but they've been collecting dust in the attic since they bought the house and shoved them up there. The impala now had even more army men stuck into the air conditioner, and even had a car seat (camouflage, of course). Though they still participated in the age old hunter's traditions (aka that one time Cassie's goldfish died and Dean built a miniature funeral pyre which Sam set on fire), hunting was more of a religion to them, not a lifestyle.

Besides, the couple had two children to worry about—there's simply no time to sit in motel rooms and read John's journal. And unless Dean wanted to walk into a bar wearing a BabyBjörn, he had no time to drink. Before Cassie was born he just quit drinking completely cold turkey, and Sam was more than pleased when Dean went to the refrigerator for water instead of beer. Also, why would they want to expose their children to the horrors of hunting? John did that to them, and they both have severe PTSD now (or, at least according to the psychiatrist that Sam insisted Dean see because of his nightmares).

The day John died in that hospital after the crash changed everything. Dean, though sad, felt a burden of perfection lifted from his shoulders; and Sam felt free of guilt and shame for the first time in years. Three years after that, the two went to a shitty diner together and walked out hand-in-hand, something neither man thought would ever happen. After the second apocalypse, Sam drove them to Las Vegas to just tear off the plaster and get married already. He had already changed his surname to Wesson (thanks, Zach) and their past had disintegrated in the eyes of the law, so it was perfectly legal. A mere four years after that, their little girl Cassandra was born; and Jack came along ten years later (for fertility reasons).

So, when Dean heard the knock at door, he expected it to be Cassie, who had probably lost her key—again. He groaned and kissed Sam on the lips before trudging downstairs to answer the door. Jack had fallen asleep, so Sam didn't dare move, as all hell breaks loose when Jack is woken up suddenly. Dean flung open the door, and sighed in mock disapproval.

"Cassandra Mary Winchester, what the—" He began cockily, but lost all breath in his lungs when he saw who was at the door, and it was definitely not his daughter.

John Winchester stood there before him, 6'2" like he remembered him being. His hair had greyed considerably and his normal stubble had grown into a homely beard. His eyes stared at Dean with an emotion he couldn't place, but he knew the ingredients of such a look: apathy, nostalgia, guilt, and anger. But that begged the question: why was he angry? And better yet, WHY and HOW the hell was he there?

"Dad?" Dean managed to say despite the dryness in his throat.

John rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I could be a skinwalker or a shapeshifter, and you're not even gonna test me? Damnit, Dean, since when did you get so rusty?"

"Okay," the green eyed man began, "a better question would be how you are even here, considering the fact that you died nearly twenty years ago?"

"We're Winchesters, Dean; we don't stay dead. That's not important right now." He tried to shove his way inside but Dean's arm blocked him from entering.

"No." He gritted his teeth. "You don't get to seek asylum here. I haven't seen you in decades, and knowing you, you've brought every...thing in a ten mile radius straight to us! And—and I don't hunt anymore, Dad. It's too dangerous."

John laughed derisively, taking a step back. "I've noticed. I've been in Missouri, with my old friend Walter. Yellow Eyes didn't kill me, y'know. He took my soul—and some winged bastard got it back: Metatron, I think. So, Cassandra, huh? That your wife, or did you just pick her because of her middle name?"

"Sam and I killed Azazel, and Metatron. Not because they hurt you or our friends, but because they posed a threat to many innocent people. Cassandra's not my wife." Dean snarled.

"But you've got a ring, so who is your wife?" John leaned against the door with a murderous grin.

Unfortunately for Dean, that's when Sam decided to carry Jack to his room. John didn't see him, thank god, but the taller man did make himself known.

"Dean, is Cassie home?" Sam yelled on his way to the stairs.

Dean turned his head and spoke loudly enough so Sam could hear but it still sounded too quiet for him. "Babe, stay upstairs. I'll come get you when it's okay. Please."

Sam raised his hands in surrender and walked back into their bedroom to watch TV (but not The Bachelor—he didn't feel like getting killed by Cassie tonight). When Dean turned back to John, he displayed a plethora of emotions. The most notable to him, however, were anger, hatred, disgust, and judgment.

"Oh, Dean," he said in a sing song voice, "I didn't know you were a faggot."

"Shut. Up." Dean replied. He was resisting the urge to knock John out cold, but he refrained.

John laughed in his face with a shit eating grin on his face and murder in his eyes. "Who's your little boy-toy, hm? Are you and that Cassandra gonna have a three way?"

That's when Dean lost it. He pinned his father to the wall outside the door and kneed him in the gut. "Speak about my husband and daughter like that again. I fucking dare you!"

John was still recovering from the knee to the stomach, but he still had it in him to be a jackass. "Husband and daughter? So, the fag's an established man now?"

Dean punched him in the nose and threw him to the floor like a rag doll. He then crouched down to his level and realised he felt how his father's eyes looked: malicious.

"Now you listen here: the only reason I'm not dragging you inside and calling the cops is because my husband and son are inside and I don't want to scar them. This is your last chance to get up and get the hell out of our lives." He whispered irately.

John got up, acting like he was leaving, but then yanked the door open and walked inside the house. Dean ran over to him and grabbed him by the shoulders to keep him from going upstairs, and immediately called for Sam.

"Get Jack and go into our room!" He shouted, narrowly missing an elbow to the face.

Sam, still carrying Jack, was terrified. He wanted to go downstairs and help his husband fight off the intruder, but he didn't want to leave his son vulnerable. So, he did what any rational parent would do: he took Jack into his and Dean's closet and bundled him up behind clothes and blankets to hide him before heading out onto the stair landing. When he saw who Dean was fighting—and beating—he covered his mouth with his hand and ran downstairs.

"Dean, what the hell?" He yelled.

"Sammy, go back upstairs, please. Wait, where's Jack?" He pleaded as he pinned their father against the wall and turned to look at Sam.

"He's upstairs, safe." He managed to say while also fumbling with the phone to call 911. He then realised what the police might say, and lowered his phone from his ear. "What the hell are you, and why the hell are you here?"

"Nice to see you too, Sammy boy." John mocked. He turned his head to stare at Dean and if looks could kill, Dean would be dead ninety times over. "So, I come back after twenty years and my sons are incestuous faggots, huh? Every father's dream. I'd kill you and those bloody kids of yours if was interested in swatting flies, but I'm not."

Sam approached John and had to resist the urge to spit in his face. "Fuck you, John."

"No, I think you'd rather fuck Dean, wouldn't you, boy?" He taunted one last time before Dean had had enough and knocked him out on the floor.

As soon as he was confirmed unconscious Dean look up at Sam and saw the tears running down his cheeks. He lunged forward and envelopes him in a hug, running his finger through his long locks.

"'s okay, Sammy. I've got you." He whispered. Just after, sirens were heard outside, as one of their neighbours had heard the commotion and called in a hate crime. The police entered the house and lifted John's unconscious body onto a stretcher, which they placed inside the ambulance after they handcuffed him to the cot. They took the boys' statements (which contained eighty percent lies) and left, leaving them to pick up the mess.

Both Sam and Dean ran upstairs to get Jack, who was still very asleep when they reached him. Dean couldn't hold it in any longer and held his son's small frame close to his chest and cried into his hair. Sam embraced the emotional huddle, crying with them.

By the time they built up the courage to go downstairs, the police had left and the PTA meeting was long over. Dean could do nothing but repeatedly kiss and hug Sam, thanking Chuck that he didn't get hurt. Jack climbed into his Daddy's lap and clung to both his dads for dear life, falling asleep in their arms again.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened again. Dean sat up and was prepared to fight off whoever was there until he saw that it was only Cassie coming back from her tutoring session and test block. Her curly brown hair bounced as she waltzed inside the house, turning to give her dads a happy glance accompanied by a wave.

Dean relaxed his tensed muscles and smiled at his daughter. "What's the paper, bug?"

She inhaled and turned it around to reveal a maths test with a large "250/250" scrawled on the front, and squealed excitedly as Sam jumped up to embrace her. He kissed her head with a proud smile and looked down into her bright green eyes, which were pulsing with excitement.

"I'm so proud of you, Cassie," he hugged her again.

When he let go of her, he kissed her head again before walking back to the sofa where Dean took his hand.

"Thank god she got your nerdy brain. I can tell my little pie monster got the smarts from you, too!" He laughed, tickling Jack's stomach. As Jack was laughing hysterically, Cassie turned around to see a partially broken vase on the floor. She turned to Sam, confused.

"Um, Dad?" She asked, gesturing to the vase. "What happened?"

Sam looked at Dean, who looked at him, and looked back at Cassie with a shrug. "Ah, nothin' you need to worry about."

Dean nodded, waving them both over to the sofa. "Right. Now, who wants to watch The Bachelor?"